


Stay

by vincredible



Category: Pitch Black (2000), The Chronicles of Riddick Series
Genre: Age Play, Fluff, Gen, Infantilism, Non-Sexual Age Play, the start of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 01:48:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3469892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vincredible/pseuds/vincredible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imam hadn't expected it, but he wasn't going to ignore it either.</p><p>(Takes place in a universe where Riddick decided to stay with Imam and Jack on Helion and never left.)</p><p>Warnings inside</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First

**Author's Note:**

> **Any warnings in case you are unaware:** this story is going to feature **non-sexual ageplay** , which means grown adult/s acting like infants, toddlers, or children. The first few chapters only hint at this, and do not feature it explicitly yet. It will be and is going to be **purely non-sexual**. If this criteria does not meet your expectations, it would be better to leave now than get your hopes up.
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy.

Richard B. Riddick was a complicated man. Imam knew this and knew it well, even though they weren’t exactly the best of companions (if they could even be called _that_ ). His presence demanded attention. He was intimidating – terrifying, even. He was animalistic, vicious, and – ultimately – unsafe. Imam should have been thankful that he had survived that pitch black planet and the trip on the skiff without meeting his death by Riddick’s hand, and he _was_. He _was_ thankful. Riddick was an unknown variable, one who could self-destruct at any time, but hadn’t yet, despite living with himself and Jack on Helion for some time. Why the man had agreed to even _that_ , he still didn’t know.

Imam could only imagine what Riddick had gone through to become the infamous convict he was so notoriously known as (the one he had met on Hades, the one he’d been wary of then and was _still_ wary of, even now), because the Richard B. Riddick he had become associated with on Helion (the one who was a perfect house guest, who was polite and respectful and even _smiled_ sometimes) was, more often than not, quiet and unassuming. Riddick was dangerous, yes; strong, agile, clever, unreadable, violent when provoked and terrifying when angry, but he was still just a man. A _murderer_ , but a man, and a man who had _manners_. He had wants and needs, just like every other man – eating, breathing, staying warm, finding shelter for the night. He just had a much tougher time finding them. Such was the life of a fugitive. But now, he was living with them, Imam and Jack, and had everything he wanted and needed, handed to him _willingly_ , free of charge, and Imam supposed that having a full stomach and a roof over his head every day was keeping him satisfied and content.

There was something else that Riddick wanted and needed, however, that was not as obvious and not as immediately rectified. Imam wasn’t aware of it, at first. He wasn’t even sure _Riddick_ knew. All he knew was that it started slow, and took time to gather its ascent.

The first time it happened, Imam had been out buying groceries. He had come back to find Riddick and Jack sprawled on the floor of the living area. This by itself was not so uncommon; he often returned home to the two of them bickering back and forth and throwing snacks at the television, displeased with whatever they were watching. It was a frequent occurrence.

This time, though, the two of them were not sharing banter or complaining about how poor the programs were. They were talking quietly from where they laid on their stomachs, surrounded by scattered colored pencils and unopened coloring books. The sight made him stop in his tracks – after all, here were both of his charges (one a teenage girl, the other an adult convict), happily coloring in the books he’d gotten for Jack to pass the time. Riddick seemed to be enjoying himself, too; he had this little smile on his face that Imam would usually have thought meant trouble, whereas Jack was wearing the biggest, goofiest grin Imam had ever seen. As well, if he craned his neck, he could see that Riddick was taking the time to keep the colors inside the lines, using the utmost patience, while Jack had decided to scribble on the paper with as many pencils as she could.

It was adorable.

It was awfully, unbearably adorable.

He did not want to interrupt them (although, he was sure Riddick had heard him come in, and was simply ignoring that he was there), so he moved into the kitchen to put away what he had bought that day. When he was done, Jack was dragging Riddick with her into the kitchen to show off their work. They’d managed to fill up three whole books between the time he’d left and had finished in the kitchen, and he could tell exactly who had done which pictures. Jack’s were all mismatched colors in all the wrong places, and she hadn’t tried to keep them in the lines at all. Riddick’s, on the other hand, were clean and precise. He’d made sure to make the colors as realistic as possible where he should, and he’d taken the time to keep them inside the lines. Not a single color was out of place.

Now, though, instead of having that small smile on his face, Riddick just looked embarrassed, which was something Imam had never thought he’d see. He was stiff, unsure, kept his head bowed and lips pursed. Imam thought he could even see a little pink on his cheeks, but he immediately dismissed it. Even if Riddick _was_ blushing (which was highly unlikely in and of itself), the convict certainly didn’t want him to bring it up, and certainly not in front of Jack while she was happily babbling about what they’d done while he was gone.

So he kept quiet and smiled along with Jack as she handed him the books, showing him how many they colored and how “awesome they are, Imam!” He decided it would be the best to simply hang them on the refrigerator, to show off just how ‘awesome’ they were. It was worth it to see how Jack beamed happily when he announced it, and how Riddick seemed to perk up, if only just.

If Imam found more than a few more pages pinned to the refrigerator in the later days, colored to perfection, he didn’t bring it up, and neither did Riddick.


	2. Second

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horribly sorry for being longer than expected; I'd completely forgotten to update this on Monday. I'll try to remember next week.
> 
> Also, this chapter and the following chapter are quite short, but don't worry; the remaining ones are mostly above 1000 words. Honestly, the first three chapters probably should have been published together, to keep the length at an okay pace, but it didn't feel like I should, so I didn't.

The second time it happened was quite different from the first. Imam had come downstairs much earlier than he usually did, while the sun was still deep below the horizon, to retrieve a glass of water, only to find soft light pouring out of the doorway from the living area when he had reached the stairwell. As he silently moved down the steps and peered inside once he reached the landing, it was not to find an intruder, as he’d expected. It was Riddick, sitting cross-legged in the center of the sofa, watching the television with rapt attention. Imam could not see what he was watching from where he stood, but he could faintly hear voices coming from the speakers. It sounded like a children’s show – an educational one, going over the alphabet and numbers.

Despite Riddick’s focus seemingly being solely on the program, he still managed to hear him enter the room, and turned his head towards him quickly enough that Imam heard his neck crack. He was still, eyes wide, before he realized what was happening and fumbled for the remote to turn the television off and plunge them into darkness. Imam could still see his eyes as he stared at him, glowing in the blackness that surrounded them, unnerving in his intensity. It was quiet for a few moments before Riddick spoke up; “I couldn’t sleep and there wasn’t anything else on.”

Imam knew it was more than that, could tell just from how Riddick had reacted to being ‘caught’, but he didn’t mention it. It would be cruel to do so when the man was clearly uncomfortable with the situation already, and he didn’t want to risk provoking him, especially with the lights out. So instead, he merely nodded, said “alright”, and moved into the kitchen, slowly enough so that if he bumped into anything on his way it wouldn’t leave a bruise. He had to switch the lights on in the kitchen to retrieve the water he had come down for in the first place, but he left them dimmed, so Riddick wouldn’t have to put his goggles back on. “Would you like a glass of water?”

Riddick was quiet for a moment or two. “No, thank you.”

Imam left it at that. He poured his own water, turned the lights back off, and then made his way back to the doorway, leaving the other man with a “goodnight, Riddick” as he did.

He didn’t reply, but he _did_ turn the television back on when Imam returned to the stairs.


	3. Third

The third time did not come for a while. Riddick had become closed off and distant after that early morning meeting, and it was leaving the other two housemates uneasy. After all, a closed off and distant Riddick was unpredictable, and – quite possibly – very dangerous. Imam took it upon himself to fix the problem before it got any worse, but didn’t know how. How was he supposed to make a murderous criminal happy?

The answer came to him as he was shopping in New Mecca’s flea market.

He returned home to find Jack making lunch for herself and trying to engage Riddick in conversation while the man had his feet propped up on the table and picked at his nails with a knife. Imam didn’t personally think that that was such a good idea (or that it was a good idea to let Riddick have a knife in the first place), but he let it go in lieu of greeting them and placing his purchases on the kitchen table. Riddick grunted to show he heard him and glanced up, uninterested, until he saw just what was in front of him and did a double-take. He swung his legs off the table to sit properly in his chair, staring. “What the hell is this?”

“ _This_ is a stuffed animal,” Imam explained. Riddick had locked eyes with the stuffed alligator in front of him and did not look away as he continued to speak; “I have bought three, one for each of us.”

“Cool!” Jack exclaimed, abandoning her lunch in favor of snatching up the stuffed tiger on the table as Imam tucked his own stuffed orca whale under his arm to empty the rest of the bags. As well as the few other things he’d bought, he’d picked up several other things, including some unused coloring books, markers, crayons, and – of course – colored pencils. Riddick barely seemed to give them a passing glance when they were placed in front of him, returning to his staring match with the alligator with a frown, but Imam had a feeling he’d be investigating them thoroughly when he and Jack were no longer around to witness it.

The other man picked the alligator up with two fingers, holding it at arm’s length. “Do I have to keep it?”

“Yes.” It was Jack who answered this time.

“I would prefer it if you did,” Imam said. “I did buy it for _you_.”

Riddick gave him a look, one Imam could practically feel even through the tinted goggles, one that was trying to see into him, to see if he was taunting him, making fun of him, but whatever he saw made him stay quiet. In return for his compliance, Imam urged Jack out of the kitchen to leave the man alone with his thoughts. When he returned several minutes later, having distracted Jack with a film, it was to find Riddick still in the kitchen, dutifully putting the crayons to work in one of the new coloring books, the stuffed alligator snug in the crook of his arm. He never brought it up.

He never brought up how, in the following days, he would occasionally find him in the living area in the early morning, watching children’s shows, alligator in his lap, either.

Riddick wasn’t closed off and distant, after that.


	4. Fourth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riddick may seem slightly (or a lot, depending) out of character, but then again: this is a **non-sexual ageplay** story. Things are going to become out of character. Just a precaution.

The fourth time it happened, it was because of Jack. She had found a little stream near the edge of the city and demanded that the three of them ‘take a day off’ to explore it. To her, ‘explore it’ mostly meant ‘take a swim somewhere other than the community pool’. Imam could not fault her for her desire to remain as far away from New Mecca’s public pools as possible; Helion Prime’s proximity to the sun meant the planet more often than not felt like it was in a state of constant summer heat. The city’s various pools were almost always filled with people (more people than Imam thought should be able to fit in such a small space). He had refused to let Jack or Riddick even attempt to visit one, fearful of the number of people who could take advantage of his youngest charge or recognize his oldest. The bacteria that could be plaguing the water wasn’t very reassuring, either. He did not want to risk it.

So he heartily approved of Jack’s plan to drag all three of them off to the stream for a day. According to her, the water was clear and free of people. He would have to make sure it was safe first, but he was able to do that within the day, and when he agreed to the plan Jack started vibrating excitedly at the prospect of swimming for the first time in years.

Riddick was not so excited. In fact, he seemed rather miserable. He’d been quiet when Jack had first brought up the idea, let Imam do the talking, but the minute Imam had returned with word that the stream was safe, he’d tried to convince Jack that no, he wouldn’t go, it would be safer for him to stay home to watch the house, he shouldn’t be allowed to leave the house _anyway_ , someone could recognize him and call the guards, but she was not swayed. It took quite a long time for her to wear him down, but it _did_ happen, and soon enough the three of them were on their way to the stream with a bag of clean clothes, Jack happily skipping in front of them, Imam trying to wrangle her back so she wouldn’t get lost in the crowd, and Riddick behind them both, glowering and hunching over to try and avoid getting stared at by anyone.

Luckily, they reached the edge of the city in good time, and then the stream was before them. Jack very nearly jumped right in without changing (and immediately did so _after_ changing), and Imam was quick to follow. Riddick did no such thing. He sat down heavily and leant back against a tree trunk, remaining relatively far away from the edge of the stream. He didn’t look like he was going to be moving any time soon, either. The sight puzzled Imam, but made Jack narrow her eyes at him. “Hey, you agreed to get in with us!”

“I said I’d come,” Riddick clarified. Imam could see the self-satisfied smirk on his face at having read between the lines of their agreement. “Didn’t say nuthin’ ‘bout getting in with you.”

In response, Jack splashed some water at him. Riddick was, unfortunately, sitting close enough to come under fire from said water, but did nothing more than lean away, as though it would help. It did nothing of the sort. He was left with soaked clothes and a scowl on his face. Jack just stuck her tongue out at him when he turned that scowl on her. “You brought it upon yourself,” she said.

Riddick scoffed, pinching at his shirt and pulling it away from his wet chest. He made a face. “Can’t a guy just lay in the shade for a while?”

“No.”

Imam shook his head at the banter while he waded over to the stream bank, hoping to disperse the tension before it had a chance to grow into something ugly. “My friend, why do you not wish to join us? The water is cool; it is a relief from the hot sun.”

Riddick shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest, no longer caring about the state of his clothing. “Not in the mood.”

Imam heard Jack huff and mutter under her breath about stubborn men before she dunked her head back under the water and swam off. He made sure she stayed close enough to keep an eye on her, but kept his attention on Riddick. “I do not believe that is the only reason,” he told him, keeping his voice low.

Riddick frowned at him. His face gave away just how tense he was, how uncomfortable he was with the conversation. It could turn bad if he took it the wrong way, but Imam kept his words light and unassuming. “You understand that there is nothing you can say that will make me view you any differently.” He gave him a meaningful look. “My view of you is quite cemented already.”

Riddick remained silent. Imam assumed that was the end of the discussion, and made to move back further into the water when he spoke back up, quietly, as if he was afraid of being heard. “I don’t like to swim.”

Imam turned back to him, only to find Riddick avoiding eye contact. He was plucking at the grass beneath his fingers as he continued; “I mean – I _can_ , if I have to. Not real good at it. Never got a chance to learn. Don’t like it much, anyway. I look like a flailing animal when I do.” Imam saw him twist his mouth in a derisive smile. “Amazing what surviving a drowning attempt’ll do to you.”

Imam nodded, sympathetic, though Riddick couldn’t see it. He, too, would be quite reluctant to step back into a body of water after almost dying within one. However, there was no time like the present to deal with one’s insecurities. He pulled himself out of the stream, walking over to the other man, who was now watching him like a hawk, suspicious. He stopped before him and outstretched a hand, which Riddick looked at like it was some kind of strange, unknown thing he’d never seen before. “I will teach you.”

Riddick’s jaw seemed to drop before he realized it had, and then he snapped it shut again. Imam half-expected him to slap his hand away and curl back into himself, complaining all the while about how he didn’t need a goddamn holy man teaching him how to _swim_ , but, instead, he took it. Imam gave him a reassuring smile before pulling him to his feet, and he tugged him over to the stream bank, shooing Jack away from where she had decided to eavesdrop, before stepping back into the water.

Riddick stopped immediately, frozen on the spot, until Imam told him, “Sit.” He did so, almost collapsing on the ground, stiff and anxious, but let Imam unlace his boots and remove them, setting them to the side. His socks were quick to follow, stuffed inside his shoes, and he made Riddick lean forward so he could pull his shirt off as well. That was draped over his shoes and socks, but his trousers were left on. They had extra clothing, so it was inconsequential whether or not his pants got wet. All that mattered was that Riddick was comfortable, and squirming uneasily on the bank of the stream was not making him comfortable. Imam had a feeling being in the water wouldn’t help, either, but he’d gotten this far. He had to at least try. He took Riddick’s hands and gently pulled him forward, inch by inch, until Riddick’s feet were soon touching the water, then submerged in it.

Now all he had to do was get the rest of him in it, as well. That took much longer, words of praise and soft promises that no, they wouldn’t be doing this again for a while easing the way. Soon enough, Riddick was waist-deep in the stream, and gripping his hands tightly enough to bruise. Despite the fact that he was tall enough to stand on the bottom of it and still have his arms completely out of the water, he was nervous and failing to hide it. How far out of the water he was didn’t seem to matter to him; in fact, the only thing that _did_ seem to matter was making sure he didn’t slip.

They didn’t move for several minutes. Imam had to make sure Riddick was used to how the water moved and reacted before doing anything else, or else the man could and would lash out. When he felt that he was relaxed enough, he eased him further into the stream, keeping him close, keeping him _safe_.

The swimming lesson was not so much a ‘swimming’ lesson as it was Imam making sure Riddick’s head didn’t go under while he taught him how to wade in and out of the deeper areas and how to doggy-paddle. It was endearing, watching a man as big and broad as Riddick swim the way a small child would. Admittedly, he picked it up quickly, if sloppily, snapping at Jack when she would pass him on another lap down the stream. Riddick was really only noticeably uneasy when the ground beneath his feet was uneven or when the water touched his chin. Imam did not fault him for it; after all, if what he said was true, he could go into a violent flashback if he lost his balance or if water got into his mouth or – worse – his nose. It was lucky that such a thing didn’t occur that day.

They spent what felt like hours at the stream, until the sky had started to darken, if only just. Imam made them all get out, and although the pair put up a token fight, they were both quick to leave – Jack because she was no more than a prune, and Riddick because he didn’t want to stay in any longer than he had to. All three of them changed into the dry clothes they had brought with them, and before long they were on their way back to the city, Jack complaining about being hungry all the way.

Riddick was quiet, as he usually was, but kept close to them on the trek back instead of staying farther away, and stopped Imam when they reached their house. Jack had already bounded inside to rummage around in the kitchen, so they were mostly alone in the front entrance when Riddick had touched his elbow and brought him to a stop. He seemed troubled, but not overly so, when he mumbled, “Thanks” before vanishing inside as soon as he could. It made Imam smile to himself before he, too, entered the building, and that night, Riddick was a lot more involved in their typical dinner conversation, and actually laughed once or twice at the corny jokes and puns Jack thought up to tell.


	5. Fifth

The fifth time it happened, Imam initiated it directly. He had come downstairs in the darkened early morning, as he had started to more and more often recently, to find Riddick curled up on the couch, watching children’s cartoons and holding his stuffed alligator tight to his chest. This was a sight that had also become more and more common these days. Imam believed it was because Riddick had stopped trying to hide what he was doing – either because Imam didn’t stay long enough to question it or because Riddick had gotten used to the company, he was unsure.

This day, however, Riddick wasn’t sitting up, as he usually was. He was lying on his side, coiled up into a tight ball, and Imam could just barely see how his eyelids were drooping with exhaustion as he tried to focus on the program playing in front of him. It wasn’t working very well. Imam could see him nodding off and jerking himself back awake with a snort and a few drowsy blinks every so often before the cycle started all over again.

Imam smiled, unwilling to interrupt, but it had to end eventually. The other man would be nothing but irritable if he didn’t get a good night’s sleep. Imam had an obligation to take it upon himself to fix it before it had a chance to develop beyond repair. He stepped forward further into the room, and Riddick’s head snapped up to assess if there was any danger the moment he realized he wasn’t alone. It was clear from the startled look in his still clouded eyes that he hadn’t heard him come down the stairs, for once. That, more than anything, let Imam know just how exhausted he was; Riddick was never _not_ on high alert.

When he saw it was his house mate, however, he immediately relaxed, and sunk back into the couch cushions, giving him a grunt in lieu of an actual greeting.

“Good morning, my friend,” Imam replied, trying to hide his amusement as he moved further into the living area, stopping only when he got to the sofa. Riddick didn’t fall for it, though, and shifted just enough to open a single eye and send him a sullen glare before burying his face into his stuffed alligator.

Imam could not stifle his laughter at that sight, which just made Riddick even grumpier, if the way he reached out a hand to try to slap at him was any indication. He didn’t do it hard enough to hurt, which meant he didn’t mean any harm, so Imam went forward with the plan that had begun to form in his head. He touched Riddick’s shoulder (lightly, so he wouldn’t jump) and said, “Lean up, please.”

He didn’t actually anticipate that Riddick would _follow_ his orders, but he did, though not without a token remark about how “I don’t wanna move, dammit”. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and balanced on one of them, rubbing at his eyes and making a face at having to _sit up_ , of all things. Imam quickly sat down in the space Riddick had vacated, just in case he didn’t want to hold himself up for too long. The movement made Riddick turn to blink his general direction, unfocused, before he was actually able to wake up enough to set his befuddled gaze on Imam, tired but coherent. He didn’t ask any questions, but Imam gave him the answers before he could – mainly, by snatching up one of the couch pillows, placing it on his lap, and giving it a single pat before returning Riddick’s stare.

The convict cast a glance at the pillow, and, when it clicked in his head, scowled at him, stiffening, on the defensive. “I’m not putting my head in your lap, Imam.”

At that, Imam shrugged. He had expected this resistance. He even expected Riddick to simply get up and go back to his own room. He wasn’t sure how this meeting would end up, now, but hoped it would remain non-violent, and hoped Riddick would not be indefinitely put off by his forwardness. “Do what you will, my friend,” he told him, “I only wish to make you comfortable. You are clearly fatigued, and this furniture is not exactly the most comfortable to sleep on.” _That_ managed to get a snort out of Riddick. It spurred him on; “It is also safer for at least someone to be awake with you while you sleep.” _To protect you_ , Imam couldn’t help but think, although he knew Riddick was more than capable of doing that himself.

Riddick was quiet for some time, expression unreadable. Imam let him think without argument; he had learned enough from his time with the other man that he simply had to wait it out, because if Riddick really wasn’t going to react then he would already have been long gone. It paid off, because, eventually, Riddick turned his gaze to the pillow still resting in Imam’s lap and frowned, glaring at it like he could make it move, but it didn’t budge. It was then that whatever conflict within him seemed to simmer to a low boil as he gritted out “fine” and shuffled forward just enough to roll onto his side. He plonked his head onto the pillow and clutched his stuffed alligator to his chest tightly enough that Imam feared it would tear. It didn’t, of course, but it was still a perfectly reasonable worry, what with Riddick’s above-average strength.

The other man was almost painfully tense, spine ram-rod straight as he focused back on the program still playing on the television. It was an animated show, with various colorful animals going over the importance of the letter ‘Q’. It was educational, but would not help in putting Riddick to sleep. So, with the utmost tenderness, Imam placed his hand on Riddick’s bicep, taking care to keep absolutely still when he coiled like a spring under his touch. He didn’t say anything – neither of them did – but after several long seconds, Riddick _did_ let out a strained breath, fidgeting under his palm until his heart stopped beating like a hummingbird’s wings. Imam took that as permission to begin rubbing circles into his arm with his thumb, hoping to calm him. The added contact didn’t startle him any further, which was good. In time, with the sun beginning to rise over the horizon, the touch actually seemed to soothe him back into the half-asleep doze he’d been in before Imam had joined him, which was even better.

Soon enough, Riddick was rubbing his cheek into the pillow under his head as he finally fell completely asleep, relaxed, pliant, and utterly content. The sight of the man curled up beside him on the couch, squeezing his stuffed alligator in his arms like a vice, letting out little snuffling snores with every breath, made Imam smile.

Admittedly, he’d had to bribe Jack not to bring it up when she came downstairs to see the two of them in that position, but it was worth it when Riddick woke up, more rested than he’d been since they’d arrived on the planet. He wasn’t any happier, really, and he certainly wasn’t more pleasant to be around than he usually was, but he was much… _looser_ , if that could explain it. Imam had assumed that he would be as stiff as he was that morning, but it was almost the opposite. He was relaxed, near peaceful, but still quick to tease Jack the way a big brother would, and much more often than he usually did. He was practically vibrating with energy – energy he couldn’t really release, since he couldn’t leave the house to find a sparring partner, and neither Imam nor Jack knew how (though Jack still wanted to, and Riddick had had to forcibly pick her up and plop her down somewhere else to keep her from trying). Imam had decided to simply take a large pillow, wrap it in a comforter, and hang it in an empty room so Riddick could beat this newfound energy out of himself.

Riddick did not disappoint. By the time he was finished, lunch was prepared, and the pillow and comforter were, quite frankly, destroyed. Riddick was apologetic about it, but he wasn’t restless anymore, so Imam didn’t mind. They had other pillows and comforters, after all.

Riddick did not let himself into that situation again for quite some time, and Imam didn’t mind that, either. The other man _did_ remain in an almost constant state of contentment for several days, though, and for that, Imam was grateful.


	6. Sixth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things in this chapter may seem out of character for Riddick, but with what I know about his background, I feel like it fits.

The sixth time it happened was in their library. Imam hadn’t been _looking_ for their resident convict, per se, but it was always nice to know where he was, to make sure he hadn’t gotten into trouble, as he was so wont to do. Riddick didn’t _search_ for trouble, but it had ways of finding him nonetheless. Imam didn’t want to take any chances; after the one and only time he’d sent him out of the house alone to pick something up had ended with him returning empty-handed two hours late (because he’d been recognized and had had to lose their tail), he could never be too cautious.

So, when Imam had found him in their library (as small and modest as it was), it was a relief, but then he’d become confused. To his knowledge, Riddick had never been in the library before. Why was he now?

Then he saw what Riddick was doing. He was sitting at the solitary table in the room with several books in front of him. Only one of them was open, which was the one he was reading – although, he seemed to be having some difficulty. His brow was furrowed in consternation above his goggles, mouthing words to himself as he went over them, flipping back and forth between pages. Imam didn’t know what, exactly, Riddick was struggling with, but it was clear that _something_ was bothering him. Whatever it was, Imam wanted to do all he could to alleviate it. Riddick was his charge; if something was the matter, he had every reason to assist him.

So, he rapped his knuckles on the wall next to the doorway, letting Riddick know he was there without startling him. As he’d expected, the man’s head shot up, focusing in on him immediately and only relaxing when he realized it was Imam. “Hey.” It was curt, clipped, but polite, in the way Riddick was when annoyed. He turned back to his book, and his frustration returned the moment his eyes were back on the pages, followed by an irritated sigh and the rubbing of his hand over his face, as if that would make… whatever the problem was any easier to solve.

Imam gradually moved further into the room, and, when Riddick didn’t stop him, walked closer, until he was at his side and peering over his shoulder. He didn’t recognize the text, but it seemed to be at a relatively simple reading level, based on the vocabulary. Imam vaguely remembered having to do book reports on similar novels during his ninth year of school on Earth – except, while it was effortless to him, it seemed to be the epitome of complexity for Riddick.

And, suddenly, Riddick’s indignation made sense.

Imam didn’t know much about Riddick’s past. In fact, he barely knew anything about it at all. The man wasn’t exactly forthcoming, often leaving the conversation and the room if the topic came up, which left Imam to speculate and assume. From Riddick’s demeanor, a _lot_ of things could be speculated and assumed. Imam _assumed_ he didn’t have the best childhood. Imam _assumed_ he’d never really been taken care of. Imam _assumed_ more than a few things had gone wrong in the course of his life. So far, all of these assumptions had been proven correct in one way or another, so to assume that Riddick didn’t know how to read? Had never gotten the chance to learn, or learn as much as he should have? Had learned the bare minimum, to survive? Imam had a hunch that those assumptions were just as founded as the others.

He didn’t bring up this revelation with Riddick, though. Not outright, anyway. The man was still glaring at the book like it was the bane of his existence, and, at that moment, maybe it was. Imam didn’t want to be on the other side of that. And, if he _did_ tell him directly, he couldn’t be sure how Riddick would react, but it was highly likely that – whatever the reaction – it wouldn’t be good. At best, he would be left uncomfortable, and Imam would have thrown all of their progress out the proverbial window.

Instead, he kept his voice carefully calm, and said, “Would you like me to help you?”

Riddick paused, then looked up at him through his goggles. His mouth twisted in a strained, self-deprecating imitation of a smirk. “Was it that obvious?”

The words were derisive and disdainful, at how obvious he was and at his own personal weakness (or, what he saw as a weakness), but they just made Imam give him a reassuring smile. “No, it wasn’t – but then, I have learned to see when you are frustrated.”

Riddick snorted, at that, and Imam counted it as the small victory it was. It was rare that Riddick even _considered_ allowing someone to cheer him up when he was in a mood; when it happened, Imam made sure it never went to waste. Then, Riddick scooted his chair over to make room for him, and it was all the permission he needed to sit down and get started.

They were in there for a few hours, going through the book from the beginning. When Riddick would stumble on a pronunciation, Imam would correct him. On the words Riddick hadn’t even known existed (which weren’t as often, but happened all the same), Imam would tell him the definition. If neither of them recognized it, they would break out the dictionary. It was all very time consuming, since Imam didn’t want to rush any of it, but it was worth it when, once they got to the conclusion of the first chapter, Riddick smiled. It was small, but genuine, and something Imam couldn’t remember ever seeing directed at him before. He wanted nothing more than to see it again.

They made it a routine to return back to the library every day before lunch for a lesson, after that. Jack would join them occasionally, to help or to joke with Riddick to lighten the mood, or to bring them food if they’d forgotten the time, though she still favored to do _anything else_ that didn’t include books. Neither of them minded; the company was pleasant, now and then, though they still preferred their lessons to be relatively private. It kept Riddick from getting self-conscious about not knowing something in front of Jack, and kept Imam from being distracted.

The delighted grin that Riddick gave him when they finished the whole book lit his face up like the sun, and Imam couldn’t have been prouder.


	7. Seventh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter in the series. It is also one of the cutest, in my opinion.

The seventh time it happened was on Riddick’s birthday. He and Jack hadn’t even known when Riddick’s birthday _was_ until the man mentioned it in passing, as if it wasn’t important; he’d just slipped it into their conversation because he thought it would be a good anecdote to bring up. “Yeah, I didn’t have a birthday ‘til the rangers picked me up. No one had my birth certificate, so they just made one up for me.” And that was that.

Except, it really wasn’t, because Jack seemed more outraged than Imam was at the words, gasping with shock. “What?! That’s – _what?!_ No birthday? When is it? We gotta get’chu presents!”

Riddick just raised his eyebrows in response, and leaned back, away from the animated teenager, clearly startled. “Uh… that’s not – necessary, Jack –“

“ _Bullshit!_ ”

“Language, child,” Imam couldn’t help but say, placing a hand on her shoulder. He eased her back down into her seat from where she’d hopped up in her exuberance, before he, too, joined in on the discussion. “Riddick, surely you do not view the day of your birth with such distaste as to think it unimportant.”

The other man shrugged, very nearly at a loss for words in the face of Jack’s abrupt anger. “’S not like anyone’s paid attention before. ‘M not exactly used to people givin’ a shit, y’know.” At his next words, he looked away. “And a lotta people’s lives would’ve been better off without me bein’ born. ‘Vicious convicted murderer’, remember?” It was surprising that he’d even told them _that_ much. Jack had apparently stunned him into compliance.

Imam gave him a once over, then sighed, accepting. It was true, and had been proven time and again during their acquaintance. The fact that he didn’t think he was worthy of attention was already well-established. He honestly should have expected that Riddick would see his own birth as more of a burden than anything else, but it had never come up before, and so he’d never thought about it.

But he was now.

“I understand, my friend,” he said aloud, silencing Jack’s indignant squawk with a look. “However,” he continued, turning back to the man in question. “We _are_ paying attention, and we _do_ care. It would honor us to make your birthday this year something to celebrate.”

Riddick opened his mouth, planning to argue, but no words came to him, and his mouth snapped shut again. He was quiet for a few moments, trying to avoid Jack’s increasing ludicrous attempts to beg him to agree because _please_ , she just _has_ to get him the best birthday present _ever_ okay, you deserve it, until he groaned at her and planted his hand on her cheek to push her away, keeping her at arm’s length, hoping to quiet her. No such luck, as she just twisted around enough to lick his palm, which made him jerk back and shake his hand out with a mumbled “ewww” as Jack looked on triumphantly.

That seemed to be the catalyst to make him agree, though, because after he was done wiping his palm clean on his trousers, he sighed, as if put upon, and grunted “fine”. He still let out an “oof” when Jack practically launched herself at him in an embrace that nearly sent him tumbling to the floor, but Jack was off him again in moments, rushing to her room happily, exclaiming how she was gonna get him the _best_ present, Imam won’t know what hit him, we should go to the flea market, see what they have, until Riddick shouted to her that “it’s in two goddamn months, take a breather, will you!” and she shouted back that “it’s _never_ too early to go gift shopping!” and was, eventually, out of earshot.

Riddick was left rubbing his hands over his face to come back to himself, but was also left with Imam, who was giving him his unreadable smile, and the sight made Riddick scowl. “Shut up,” he growled, and Imam put his hands up in a placating gesture.

“I have nothing to say,” he said. Riddick snorted, at that, and Imam could almost see him roll his eyes behind his goggles.

Riddick’s birthday was two months later, as he’d said, and the first gift was from Jack _and_ Imam. It was breakfast. While true that one of them made it every day anyway, this time was special; it was Riddick’s _birthday breakfast_ , something they were positive he had never experienced before, and they made sure to cook up his favorite: syrup-drenched waffles with a side of strawberries. Riddick had never actually _said_ what his favorite was, but the way his happiness would pour off of him whenever that particular dish was prepared made it obvious, so all that was left to do was to whip some up, _before_ he could come downstairs to see what all the ruckus was about this early in the morning.

The sun was still deep below the horizon by the time they had finished (and once Imam had kept Jack from accidentally getting flour all over the kitchen). They completed the tray by adding a softly lit candle to it, mostly for their benefit, and then made their way up to Riddick’s room, sure to make as much noise as possible along the way so he knew they were coming.

Riddick was already awake when they opened the door, if sleepily so, still blinking the drowsiness away and yawning from his position sitting hunched over in his bed. He shot them a half-hearted glare when they walked in, though, and squinted suspiciously at the candle and their twin brilliant grins, but did a double-take when he actually saw what they were holding. He was obviously surprised at the fresh warm food waiting for him – and set up all nice and pretty on a tray just for him, at that. He was even more surprised when Jack bounded over with it and carefully set it down on his lap before pressing a quick kiss to his cheek with a whispered “happy birthday, Riddick!” and running right back out, no doubt heading back to her own room to go back to sleep. Imam could just barely see the blush start to spread over his cheeks in the dim light of the candle, and smiled softly at the sight, until Riddick realized he was still there and immediately tried to regain his composure, twisting his expression into one of disgust as he rubbed at his cheek to get rid of the ‘Jack cooties’.

He quirked an eyebrow at the waffles in front of him, then at Imam, then back at the waffles, before he picked up his fork to poke at them, acting as though it was some kind of strange unknown danger. “So…” he trailed off, “Breakfast in bed? Is that a – thing? A birthday thing?”

“Usually? No,” Imam admitted. Riddick kept his eyes adamantly on his food at the words, and Imam thought he saw his shoulders slump, if only just, as if disappointed, but did not mention it. “For you? Yes.” _That_ made him look up, and his brow knitted with confusion as he processed the words.

They were both quiet for a few moments. Before Riddick could open his mouth to question him further, however, Imam continued with, “You have never celebrated a birthday. You have also never had breakfast in bed. ‘Kill two birds with one stone’, as they say.” Riddick looked back down to his plate again, picking at it. Imam knew the minute he closed that door behind him, he was going to finish the dish in no time flat, so he took a step back out of the doorway, grasping the handle and giving him a reassuring smile when the man glanced over at the movement. “Happy birthday, Riddick.” Then, he quietly closed the door, and left him to his own devices.

Riddick didn’t come out of his room until he was done eating, bringing the empty plate and tray with him to the kitchen. He likely hadn’t expected Imam to be there when he did, from the way he paused in the doorway in surprise, and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting before making his way over to the sink to clean up. He never got that far, of course; Imam took the dishes from him before he could, claiming that he wasn’t supposed to do chores on his birthday, so instead, he made his way into the living area and took a seat on the sofa. Imam could hear when he switched the television on, flicking through the channels until settling on the same cartoon Imam had caught him watching almost every early morning, and he smiled to himself. He would join him shortly.

The rest of the day went by smoothly, aside from Jack’s inexhaustible delight after she woke back up. Nothing was out of the ordinary, nothing deviated from what had become their ‘normal’, and Imam could see that it was putting Riddick at ease. The man had expected a celebration, more presents than he could count, things he wasn’t familiar or comfortable with, but both Imam and Jack knew it would be better to keep things to a very low minimum. The last thing they wanted was to make him uncomfortable, and so (not counting breakfast), they had only gotten him one gift each, to keep him from getting overwhelmed. It was paying off exactly as they’d planned.

It wasn’t until they were all together in the living area that afternoon and Riddick had begun to nod off on the couch that Jack decided to retrieve her gift. He had snorted half-awake when she’d jumped up to get it, but fell back into a doze after Imam murmured to him, saying it was only Jack. He’d gotten up to shut the curtains and taken off his goggles so they wouldn’t dig into his face beforehand, but he’d dozed off all the same. As a result, she returned after he’d fallen fully asleep, snoring quietly and trying to burrow into the couch cushions. It was still a surprise that he didn’t wake up when she draped her gift over top of him, since he was almost always on high alert (although, he did grunt and try to squirm away before settling back down), and an even bigger one when he _still_ didn’t wake as she tucked it around him. The fact that he stayed asleep left Jack positively giddy as she backed away to look over her handiwork.

Riddick was now covered with a dark blue plaid blanket, lined with fluffy white fleece – completely plain, considering Jack certainly could have gotten something much gaudier. The man was shifting under the material, and Imam thought for a moment that he would kick it off and Jack would be left heartbroken, but instead, he simply nestled deeper into the cocoon that he had been tucked into, gripping at it and pulling it tighter around him as he slept. Imam had to stifle a chuckle at the sight, and shushed Jack when she very nearly jumped about with excitement, no doubt beyond pleased that her gift had been accepted.

She calmed back down quickly enough, however, and settled into her ‘assigned’ armchair to watch whatever was on the television. A comfortable quiet engulfed them, only ever interrupted by a particularly loud snore from Riddick, a stifled snicker from Jack, or the rustling of a book page by Imam as he read. By the time Riddick woke back up again, a half an hour had passed, and Jack had wandered off to find a snack. He woke gradually, at first; blinking tiredly, nearly slapping himself in the face when he went to rub his eyes, groaning at now being awake, before he realized something was _off_ from when he’d fallen asleep, and he froze.

“Imam.”

Imam had no qualms about smiling, this time, even if it was only at the book. “Yes, little one?”

That made Riddick remove his hands from his face, just so he could shoot an unreadable look at him, those silver eyes almost glowing in the dark light that managed to seep through the curtains. While before that look would have made Imam feel as if Riddick was sizing him up for slaughter, he now he knew was really just pure befuddlement. Neither of them acknowledged it, though; acknowledged that with that simple phrase, _something_ had shifted (for the better, Imam thought). Instead, Riddick sat up, turning away from Imam to stare incredulously at the pool of fluffy fabric now pooled in his lap. “What.” It was a statement.

“It is Jack’s birthday gift to you,” Imam explained, glancing up to give him a hard stare. “So don’t you dare think about throwing it out.”

Riddick seemed appalled that Imam would even consider such a thing, and fiddled with the blanket until he was buried once again in the thick material, having draped it around his shoulders like a cloak to huddle into it. All he could see of him was his narrowed eyes and furrowed eyebrows, the rest of his head and body hidden by his brand new blanket. Imam just fondly shook his head and went back to his book.

They didn’t speak anymore, after that, and once Jack returned, the rest of the day continued as it typically did. Although it was true that Imam had to keep Jack from teasing Riddick about just how much he liked his gift (considering he hadn’t even wanted anything in the first place), nothing of note happened until the late evening. Riddick hadn’t taken off his blanket-turned-shroud since he’d put it on – didn’t take it off even after they’d all started to head to bed. In fact, it was still wrapped tight around him when Imam entered his bedroom that night, even though he was still under his regular covers.

The other man glanced up when Imam came in, followed immediately by him stuffing something out of sight that he’d been holding, clearly surprised and puzzled by his entrance. His next words only confirmed this; “What’s wrong? Is Jack refusing to go to bed again?”

“I heard that!” was called from down the hall, and Imam shut the door, exasperated at her interruption. The room was now pitch black without the added light from the hallway, but Imam knew the layout well enough to move without any trouble, and soon reached his bedside. “No, this has nothing to do with Jack.” He held up the book in his hand – one that was much different than the ones in the library, one he’d kept hidden away since he’d bought it. Riddick observed it curiously (from what Imam could see, which was only his eyes), and he continued with, “It is your birthday gift.”

Riddick was quiet for a few moments, contemplating, but he eventually said, “You got me a book?” He sounded almost touched, and it made Imam smile.

“Yes. I believe you’ll enjoy it.” He set it on his bedside table. “You may read it when you like.” And with that, he turned to make his leave.

Well, he was going to, until Riddick’s hand snapped out of his blanket cocoon to grasp his sleeve and tug him back. Bemused, he allowed it, and remained standing beside him while Riddick shifted and shuffled enough to flick the bedside table lamp on to its lowest setting. The light still made him blink and squint for a few seconds before he settled back down on his pillows with a huff. “Could you – read it to me?” The words were halted and somewhat annoyed, trying to gloss over the fact that he’d just asked someone to read to him, had asked _Imam_ to read to him, and Imam followed his example with ease.

“Of course,” he said, watching how Riddick sunk into the mattress with relief the moment the words were out of his mouth. It was obvious that he’d been terrified of how Imam would react to his request, to the vulnerability behind it. Imam simply picked the book back up, sat at the very edge of the bed, flipped it open to the first page, and began to read. He didn’t stop until he heard Riddick’s soft snores muffled into his pillow, which was when he cautiously stood back up and set the book down once again, sure to be quiet enough not to wake him. He plucked the stuffed alligator up from the other side of the bed, where Riddick had tried to hide it earlier, and placed it back in his arms. The other man curled around it as soon as he could, squeezing it tightly and burrowing back into his cocoon with a grunt and murmur. It was then and only then that Imam chose to leave, flicking the lamp back off and plunging the room into darkness as the door closed behind him.


	8. Eighth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, warning for expected out of character-ness.

The eighth time it happened was because they had gone to the stream again. This time, however, it had started raining before they’d even considered packing up to leave. By the time they’d managed to gather their things and get back to the city and inside their home, all three of them were soaking wet with ice-cold rainwater and in need of a shower to warm back up.

Except now, after Imam, Jack, _and_ Riddick had taken their showers and gotten dressed in some fresh clothes, said convict was apparently dealing with some kind of dilemma, if the way he was poking his head out of the dimly lit bathroom and trying to grab Imam’s attention was anything to go by. When Imam entered the room to see what was wrong, he was handed an electric razor, accompanied by a frustrated, “My hands are still shaking from the cold. I thought it might be easier with this one, but it still nicked my hairline, see?” Imam looked back up from where he’d been staring incredulously at the razor now in his hands to find Riddick pointing to a small cut on the side of his forehead, to the left – far too close to his temple for Imam’s comfort, though Riddick didn’t seem at all put off by it. In fact, he seemed to be _pouting_ , and even that was more so because he couldn’t shave his own head than it was because he’d been cut.

Instead of questioning why Riddick would call him for this, why he couldn’t just wait until he was warm enough to do it himself, he nodded and said, “Alright.” And that was that. He brought in a stool, sat him down, placed a towel under him, and set to work. The steady buzz of the razor was the only thing to be heard for several minutes, Imam gently turning his head to reach everywhere, being _especially_ careful by his cut and just as careful not to give him any more, particularly because the light was so faint. Fine bristles of hair fell to the towel below as he worked, until, eventually, he was done, and Riddick was just as bald as he usually was – pleased with his work, if what Imam could see of his reflection in the mirror was anything to go by.

“Thank you,” he said, almost shy, and ducked his head.

Imam merely smiled. “It was no trouble, little one,” he told him, switching the razor off and setting it aside so he could rummage around through the medicine cabinet for a band-aid. Riddick started to protest the moment he realized what he was doing, but Imam just shushed him, retrieving it and peeling it out of its wrapping to place it directly on top of the (now-scabbed) cut on Riddick’s hairline. The man in question seemed somewhat annoyed at being coddled, especially over something that had already healed, but allowed it nonetheless, and with no argument. “Thanks,” he mumbled after he was done, scrunching his nose up in distaste.

Imam merely chuckled at his grumpiness. “You’re welcome,” he said in response, brushing his thumb over the bandage, watching how Riddick’s eyebrows knit together just a little with puzzlement. “Do be careful from now on,” he insisted. He said no more than that, but he didn’t have to. Riddick understood all the same, and he nodded, slowly, with a quiet “okay” of agreement. Imam nodded back at him, leaning forward to press a kiss to the band-aid before he could think twice about it, and then he was moving to pick up and brush off the towel still on the floor to occupy himself. He knew he had possibly crossed a line, too early, too quickly, and was giving Riddick the opportunity to leave the situation if he so chose. Instead of listening to departing footsteps, as he’d expected, he felt Riddick very hesitantly hug him, clearly unused to such intimate contact, stiff and uncoordinated. He backed away just as quickly as he leant forward, and when Imam turned around afterward it was to see him hurriedly picking the stool up and exiting the bathroom, flushed pink with embarrassment as he ran off.

It seemed Imam hadn’t made such a horrible decision after all. Smiling to himself, he returned to his task. Maybe he would make Riddick’s favorite dinner that night, as a reward of some sort.

The smile on his face when dinner time came around made it worth it.


	9. Ninth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being a day late; I've been sick the last few days. Also, as is customary: warning for out of character-ness in regards to Riddick.

The ninth time it happened was quite fun, though it didn’t start out that way. It started with Riddick strolling into the living area one afternoon, having been searching for him. Imam looked up from where he’d been reading on the couch, only to see him scratching his stomach and pouting, which had prompted him to ask what was wrong. Riddick had replied with, “I think I have a rash.”

Imam had furrowed his brow in worry at the claim, and set his book aside. “A rash?” What could Riddick have eaten that would have caused a rash? Was he allergic to something? Was there something wrong with his blankets? His clothing?

“Mm-hmm,” Riddick said, walking over. He lifted his shirt up so Imam could take a look at his stomach, but there was no rash to be seen. If anything, the only thing he _could_ see were the red lines he’d left behind from scratching at the paler skin of his stomach – scratching that was more than likely _not_ caused by a rash. Imam quirked an eyebrow, and raised a hand to brush over the marks, to see if there were bumps he just couldn’t see, but Riddick made a high-pitched noise and jerked back the moment his hand made contact with his stomach. It made Imam blink at him, stunned, and even _he_ looked a little surprised at his reaction.

“Uh…” was all he said, making a face. “That felt – weird.”

Imam turned his attention back to his stomach, wondering whether he _did_ have a rash and if it was what had caused him to react that way. He traced his scratch marks again, trying to feel if there were small bumps on the skin, but felt nothing of the sort. Besides that, he received another backwards lurch from Riddick, and – this time – what sounded like a giggle before he cut it off by clapping his hands over his mouth, dropping his shirt back down in the process.

Imam knew exactly what had caused his reaction now, and had to stifle a snort at the revelation that Riddick – the mighty, fearful Richard B. Riddick – was _ticklish_. The man in question, however, seemed horrified. “What the _hell?_ ” he choked out, rubbing his palms over his stomach to get rid of the prickly sensations that remained.

His outrage made Imam chuckle. “Well, I can tell you, you don’t have a rash.” Riddick sent him a glare, at that, but Imam just continued with, “And _this_ …“ Here, he reached forward, tickling his sides and making him squeak and stagger away from him, shoving at his hands. “ _This_ is called being ticklish.”

“ _Ticklish?_ ” The word left him scowling. “I’m not _ticklish_ , Imam.”

“Oh?” Imam very nearly called him out on his denial, but kept his mouth shut. Before Riddick could stop him, too distracted and out of sorts to do anything but rub at his sides, Imam lifted his shirt back up and tickled his bare stomach. Riddick started gasping and trying to slap his hands away the moment he realized what was happening, and the laughter that escaped him when he couldn’t stop it was loud and uninhibited and _joyful_ , something Imam had never heard from him before. The best he’d heard was a sly snicker or chuckle, not these full-blown guffaws that left him grinning so wide his cheeks were sure to ache. He couldn’t even remain standing for long under the onslaught; his knees buckled, and soon he was curling into a ball on the floor to stop Imam from doing any more damage to his torso, kicking out and wrapping his arms around his midsection to fend him off through his laughter.

After Riddick had started tearing up, Imam finally stopped, leaning back and letting him gather his composure. Though, after a show like that, he couldn’t, not really, and simply turned over onto his back, wincing at the stretch in his aching stomach muscles. He splayed his limbs out and breathed, eyes closed, getting himself back under control. All the while, a pleasant smile was clear on his flushed red face. “That was awful,” he said, voice hoarse.

Imam couldn’t help it; he laughed. “Then I won’t do it again, little one.”

That made Riddick roll his head around, squinting one eye open to peer up at him. “Not that awful,” he admitted.

Imam just smiled.


	10. Tenth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last and, somewhat, most out of character chapter. Thank you all for reading.
> 
> Also, if it seems like its gone too far or too intimate too quickly, be reminded that this is pretty much all happening over the course of a few _years_ , not months or weeks. They've known each other for a long enough time ( _I_ think) for Riddick to start to get attached enough for this chapter to make some relative sense.

The tenth time it happened was when Riddick got sick. In all honesty, Imam hadn’t even known Riddick _could_ get sick. The man seemed too big, too _indestructible_ to get sick, but here he was, stuck in bed with acute bronchitis.

He’d contracted it from Jack when _she’d_ caught the common cold. It wasn’t unusual for a rash of cases to pop up this time of year in New Mecca, and Riddick simply seemed to be one of the many who happened to catch it. _Unlike_ most of the population, however – including Jack – he’d ignored the more tame symptoms, and now found himself with much _less_ tame ones, hunkered down in bed with three blankets, five pillows, and his stuffed alligator. He was coughing up a lung every few minutes, and had to spit the resulting mucus into a bucket every time he did. Whenever Imam would walk into his room, it was almost always to find nothing but his head plainly visible, red from fever and pouting. He looked pathetic, and pitiful. It was adorable, too, because he was obviously unused to getting sick, and even _more_ unused to being _taken care of_ when he was.

Admittedly, Riddick was very, very good at hiding things when he wanted to. Imam hadn’t even realized he was ill until he’d had a coughing fit in the kitchen, but had fussed and fretted the moment he had, until Riddick had, eventually, reluctantly agreed to let him act as his bedside nurse. It was a good thing, too; by then, Riddick’s throat was so sore that he couldn’t swallow anything more than liquids, and he likely would have pushed himself too far and had to see a doctor. Neither of them wanted that.

Riddick was a fair patient, though. He was quiet, compliant, and listened to Imam when he told him what he needed to do to get better – namely, rest. When Riddick wasn’t resting, he was whining about how much his chest hurt and how sweaty he was, or trying to get out of bed for any number of reasons, more often than not just to walk around the house, to keep himself busy and alert.

Which is exactly what started it that afternoon.

When Imam entered his bedroom, bearing a bowl of soup that was mostly broth, it was to find Riddick trying to push himself out of bed, struggling with the covers. Imam put a stop to it immediately, setting the bowl down so he could push him back against the pillows and headboard. The other man allowed it with an exasperated noise and a glare, one that softened when he realized he’d brought food. Imam gave him a look, making sure he knew what would happen if he tried to get out of bed again, and Riddick just rolled his eyes in response, and nodded his head towards the bowl with wide-eyes and batted eyelashes, trying to imitate the innocent expression Jack did when she wanted something. With a snort, Imam picked the bowl back up and sat on the edge of the mattress, stirring the soup as it cooled. “Do you think you’ll be able to eat much?”

Riddick shook his head, pulling his alligator tighter against his chest as he whispered, “Only a little.”

“Alright.” Imam raised the spoon up out of the broth, making sure it didn’t drip and blowing on it lightly, and said, “No more talking. What have I told you about that?” Riddick stuck his tongue out at him at the reprimand, but when Imam held the spoonful out to him, he ate it without argument, as he had the last few times Imam had brought him food. Technically, he could have fed himself, but this was the more-efficient, less-likely-to-have-it-spill-all-over-your-clothes option, so it was what they had (grudgingly, in Riddick’s case) agreed upon.

With the soup halfway finished, Riddick slumped back onto the headboard with a grunt of pain, rubbing his throat, wincing, and starting to cough again. Imam set the bowl back down, snatching the bucket up from the floor so he could hack up any mucus into it, and helped him into a laying position when he leant backwards, dizzy, bleary, unfocused. Once he was safe and sound under the covers, pillows fluffed and alligator snug in his arms, he sunk into the mattress with a heavy exhale, the sound rough in his abused throat. He shut his eyes, buried his face in the pillow under his head, and grumbled under his breath, beginning to drift off.

Imam was just getting ready to pick the bowl of soup back up and leave him to rest when he heard Riddick speak again, soft and nearly muffled, but heard all the same; “’Anks, dad.”

And it just made him stop.

Riddick was clearly already asleep, snuffling into his pillow and not paying a lick of attention to the conscious world, so Imam knew the words were probably just the result of sickness and exhaustion, of latching onto the closest thing to a parental figure he’s ever had while he was so weak and out of sorts, but that rationale didn’t stop the wave of fondness from bursting in his chest, or the bright smile from spreading over his face.

Riddick had called him _dad_.

The mere thought made it impossible for him to stop smiling, and he couldn’t help but lean down to press a kiss to Riddick’s temple. The touch made the other man shift and huff, but he didn’t wake up, and Imam was able to exit his room without a sound, leaving him to his nap.

As he’d expected, however, Riddick never even hinted at remembering what he’d said. In the state he was in, the chance that he would remember something so trivial while mostly asleep was very, very slim.

Imam didn’t mind. He didn’t bring it up, either. He just waited.

A few days after Riddick was fully recovered and badgering Jack about how she’d gotten him sick (and her badgering him back about how it was his own fault, _stupid_ ), Riddick had apparently misplaced something around the house. Imam was in the kitchen at the time, making sandwiches for all of them for lunch, when Riddick had called down from upstairs, “Dad, have you seen that one coloring book?”

Imam’s head shot up at the title, surprised that Riddick had used it again so soon after the first time, but focused on the question easily enough with a furrowed brow, and called back, “You’ll have to be more specific, Richard.” That was a bad habit of the man’s; asking someone to help him find something while giving the _least amount_ of descriptive hints as possible. It was rather endearing, in a way.

Imam heard a thunk, then, “The one with the superheroes.”

“You left it in the living area, didn’t you?”

A pause ensued before Riddick started downstairs to check the first floor. Imam let him be, having almost forgotten that he’d called him ‘dad’ at all, when Riddick walked into the kitchen with an air of smug satisfaction as he held the book up triumphantly. When Imam only laughed softly and returned to his sandwich making, he put the book down onto the island and folded his arms across his chest with a tilt of his head as he considered the cover. A few moments passed in silence that steadily became more and more charged, until Riddick said, “You don’t… mind, do you?”

Imam didn’t need to ask to know what Riddick was talking about, and he turned to him with a calming, indulgent smile, the tray of finished sandwiches in hand. “Not at all.” He placed the tray down in front of the coloring book, hoping he was settling Riddick’s anxiety as he spoke. “On the contrary, I’m flattered you think so highly of me.”

Riddick returned his smile almost bashfully, looking back down at the coloring book and the sandwiches while Imam called for Jack to come down to eat. Then he scowled and said, “Dammit, now I have to find my crayons,” and went back off to search for them.

“They’re in the library.”

“Thanks, dad.”

Riddick had no qualms about calling him ‘dad’, after that.


End file.
